


Someone to Guide Me

by MacandLacy



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brotherly Love, Clocks are involved, Disability, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Language, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-09-25 08:54:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17118248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacandLacy/pseuds/MacandLacy
Summary: An accident could change Queen forever after Roger is injured.  Thank goodness his brothers are there to stand by and guide him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kat_Of_Dresden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat_Of_Dresden/gifts).



> This is a gift fic for ClaraCiury(Kat_of_Dresden). Please be sure to check those wonderful stories!
> 
> The inspiration came from 3 sources: love of the band Queen, great admiration of the stories of ClaraCivry (Kat_Of_Dresden) (this is a gift), and my fondness for the band Def Leppard, both for their music and how they stuck by Rick Allen after his accident. Okay, I obviously have a soft spot for drummers....
> 
> Set in very vague early 1980's time frame. AU in that no one is in a serious romantic relationship with anyone. Just 4 bandmates making music.
> 
> Right now I have no idea how long this will be. We shall see......
> 
> Warning: not betaed :-)

He wasn't drunk. Or being reckless, even. Just a plain, stupid, accident. One second he was walking down the small set of rises that his drum kit was set up on, and the next he was slamming into the unyielding concrete of the floor. A fall of about 4 feet when the risers collapsed....landing smack on his head.

In retrospect, he was just glad it that it was the honest end of their performance, encore done and everything. He had truly been on his way off stage and intending to go the dressing room when disaster struck.

Instinctively, he moved to get up; after all, it wasn’t exactly the first time he had fallen. But the moment he automatically opened his eyes and started to move, something in his brain told him to stop, warning him that something was wrong. For once, he listened to his Biology classes. and keep still, closing his eyes.

They had a good-sized crew and within seconds he could hear lots of voices yelling for the medics and protectively surrounding him. It was a few more moments, though, before he heard the voices he needed to hear the most.

“Rog, darling, what the Hell?” Freddie, his powerful voice now focused on him. He could hear Brian and John also telling people to get out of their way, and then a voice not as familiar, but very welcome.

“Mr. Taylor, it’s me, Steve, the medic.” The perks of being a successful band was that in addition to a decent crew, they also had a personal travelling medic. Steve spent most of his time tended to cuts, colds, hangovers, and making hot tea with medicine for Freddie’s voice, but he was very capable and in fact was in med school; he had been thrilled to accept a position as the band medic for the tour and more than happy to take a break from school for a few months.

“Sir, can you please open your eyes? Look at me?” Steve continued. Roger obeyed, and ….oh fuck.

Floaters. Spots. Tunnel vision. Weird pulsing light that had nothing to do with lighting effects.

He didn’t realize he had spoken aloud until a hand came down firmly on his eyes, making him close them again.

“Do not open your eyes again, and keep your head still, understand?” It was Brian now, using his professor voice, as the others teased him about. For once, though, Roger was willing to take instruction. He automatically started to nod, and then long hands that could belong only to their guitarist were locking around his face, holding his head still. “I just said, *don’t move* you bloody idiot!” Brian snapped. His voice sounded only inches from Rogers ears, and the drummer guessed that Brian was kneeling on the ground next to him. A movement, a shift, and Roger realized that long knees were on either side of his head, holding him in place and making sure he couldn’t move even if he wanted to.

“Damn right,” Steve muttered, and Roger knew now that it was their medic who had a hand covering his eyes. “We need a towel, something to cover his eyes…now!” There was a pause of about half a second and then Steve saying “Um…yes, right. Thank you, Sir, that will work quite nicely.” Something soft and surprising warm was laid over Rogers’s eyes and Brian’s hands held it in place as it was carefully tucked around his ears. “Make fucking sure the ambulance crew knows that we need a neck brace and headboard!” Steve and Brian shouted practically in unison. There were assorted affirmative yells from crew voices, and sounds of people racing to take up positions.

“Just stay cool, Roger,” said Deaky, his hands taking their drummers, giving him something solid to hang onto. “We got it all taken care of.” The bassist started automatically tapping a calming beat with his fingers, and Roger wasn’t too proud to accept the grounding exercise.

After that, things got really fuzzy. Freddie taking charge, naturally, but in a bloody effective way (“I said, darlings, to get out of the fucking way! Do NOT test my legendary patience right now!”) which would have made Roger laugh, but he was under strict orders to stay still. Brian holding him, a looming calmness, and Deaky logically ratting off facts and stats (age, any known medical issues, solid report on the accident) to the ambulance crew when they arrived, never once letting go of Roger’s hands, helping to keep him calm. Steve was conferring with the other medics, and before he quite knew it, Roger felt himself strapped into a neck and back brace, then a gurney, carried, and put in the ambulance. It was made even more disorienting by whatever was now firmly wrapped around his entire head, covering his eyes and ensuring that he couldn’t see a thing.

He had a moment of panic, cut off from physical and verbal contact with his bandmates as he was lifted into the ambulance, but then Deaky had hold of his hands again, and was politely, quietly, but firmly, telling people to “F off”, that he was staying with Roger no matter how crowded it made the ambulance.

“Freddie and Brian are going to handle the press, and meet up with us at hospital,” the bassist assured Roger quietly as the emergency vehicle started up. “Me? I’m not going anywhere.”

And all Roger could do was squeeze Deaky’s hands as they did a perfect in-sync bass/percussion duet.  
*****


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone, for all the kudos and such kind comments!

Chapter Two

“Mr. Taylor suffered a partial tear to the retina of his right eye. It’s always a possibility when there is a blow to the head. It can have serious complications when it does occur, so it was fortunate that he was treated quickly. We are optimistic about his chances for a full recovery. It will just take some time.” Roger liked how no-nonsense Dr. Lewis was his bandmates. He had seen only a fuzzy outlined blur of her when she had first examined him, but he was prepared to love her on the basis that she had managed to make Freddie shut up with his questions and nagging. She had also threatened to toss all three of the other band members out of the room if they interrupted her once more time. That took some serious guts.

It was the day after the accident, and Roger was finally feeling the bruises and scrapes from the fall. According to Deaky, the entire separate riser for the drum kit had collapsed. It was a bit of a miracle it hadn’t happened during the show, which could have ended up being better or worse. Roger may not have hit his head, but he could have been crushed under all his equipment. It wouldn’t have been a good situation regardless. 

And as it was, this was pretty bad.

Roger had been rushed into surgery within an hour after the accident, and he had been told by several nurses that expect for when he was in the operating theater, Deaky, Freddie and Brian hadn’t left his side. It was Freddie trying to sneak into the recovery room that made Dr. Lewis nearly toss him out. Freddie and the good doctor did seem to have made some sort of pact however, and now at Roger’s insistence, she was briefing his mates. According to record company paperwork, they all had each other has medical proxies when on tour, so Lewis was talking to them as she would to family.

“Right, so when can he be discharged?” It was Freddie, impatient as always. 

“Baring no complications, I am prepared to discharge him tomorrow. But,” she took a deep breath and Roger braced himself; he knew what was coming next. He had a degree in Biology after all, and knew enough about eye injuries from his general studies. He’d also had a private talk with the good doctor during the examination and she had respected his knowledge. “He will need to rest for several days, as little head movement as possible, and it may be several weeks after that before we can unbandage his eyes. The longer they can ‘rest’ – to not be used – the better. He will be very sensitive to light, and may need prescription glasses. This sort of injury can take month or more to heal. And of course I need to examine him in a few days for a follow-up.”

Roger took a deep breath of his own. Time for the really serious talk. “Thank you, Dr. Lewis,” he said, trying to keep his tone as light as possible, even though his heart was breaking. But he knew what had to be done. “May we please all have a few moments to talk?”

“Of course.” A soft hand pressed a call button into his hand and Roger just *knew* that a firm look was being given to the other three men in the room. “I will check on a few other patients and be back soon. Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.” There was a click of shoes leaving the room, and then they paused.

“Oh, Mr. Mercury, I believe that this belongs to you.” There was a rustle that sounded like something being taken out of a bag. Roger was already trying to use his hearing to compensate for the lack of sight.

There were snorts of amusement from the other men, and Roger automatically turned his head, as if that would somehow miraculously make him see what was being discussed. “What is it?” he demanded. Something was definitely afoot. 

It was Deaky who took pity on him. “Well, we needed something to wrap around your eyes, remember?” Roger nodded, vaguely remembering. “Ah, as it turned out, the closest, best thing was….um….well….”

“My tie,” Freddie said proudly.

Roger furrowed his brow as much as the bandages allowed. “Your…tie,” he said slowly.

“Yep.” Brian confirmed. There was a definitely tone of laughter in his voice

“That ridiculous red tie, that you had around your neck all night,” Roger clarified, hoping he was looking in Freddy’s general direction.

“The one and only!” Freddie was clearly insufferable.

Dr. Lewis coughed discreetly. “It did the job,” she admitted.

Roger was beginning to lose a bit of his crush for Dr. Lewis. It seemed that she was suddenly taking Freddie;s side; the traitor. “You blindfolded me with your tie,” Roger repeated one more time, trying to get the concept through his head.

“Yes, dear, yes, and you looked marvelous. Don’t I keep telling you that red is your color?”

Oh God, as if things weren’t bad enough. That sweaty tie that Freddie usually tossed into the audience for it to be ripped to shreds. Roger wanted to sink into the bed in embarrassment.

“I figured I better get it back to you now, Mr. Mercury,” Dr. Lewis continued. “Several of my staff have already tried to steal it as a souvenir.”

“Please, keep it, I insist! In fact, let us all autograph it for you. Brian, love, maybe you can make an “X” for Rog; you do have lovely penmanship.”

Several minutes later, the silk tie presumably autographed, they were finally left alone, and Roger braced himself. “Um….guys….” he wasn’t really sure where to begin. Fortunately, Brian jumped in.

“Roger, we are just all so grateful that you weren’t hurt worse. You heard what the doctor said, everything will be fine.”

“And if it had to happen, well, we have a few days off anyway,” Deaky said logically. “You really do have good timing, mate. We got it all arranged to go to a nice private house in the city where you can rest and come back for your checkups.”

Roger swallowed hard. “Okay, well, look, Alex, my head tech, he is really good, honest. I mean, you can call in someone else if you want, but I really do suggest him. He knows the songs and the set really well. He’ll be great.”

There was a long pause. “What are you talking about?” Brian finally asked, sounding honestly confused.

“We can’t cancel the last shows just because of me. I mean, one of them is for charity. So get Alex in to play, or whoever you want, and….”

“Darling.” Just two syllables, but they made Roger cringe. He had heard Freddie use that tone of voice only on idiot managers and a very shady character who had once kicked a cat right in front of the singer. It had taken Brian, Deaky, and Roger to hold Freddie back from likely murdering the cat-abuser. They never held him back when he went after record producers and managers.

“Let me get this straight,” the icy tone continued and Roger now seriously wanted to shrink into the bed. There were some steps and he could tell that Freddie was looming over him, his face just inches away. “Are you are suggesting that we bring in a replacement drummer for the last shows?” Every word was snapped.

“Well, yeah, of course. What else can you do? Like I said, we can’t cancel any shows, that wouldn’t be right when there are plenty of good drummers who can step in.” Roger was genuinely perplexed. He automatically turned his head in the direction where he knew Brian and John were sitting in chairs beside his bed. “Guys? A little help here, please?” What madness was Freddie up to now?

But all he got was a moment of icy silence before someone – Brian, he guessed -laid a large hand on his shoulder. “Mate, we know you had a scare, we all did. And I have no doubt there are still some pretty good drugs in your system from surgery. So we are willing to cut you some slack –-“

“But there is no way we are getting a replacement for you. No one can replace you,” Deaky continued. “We already talked about it. Suck it up.”

“What??” Roger felt the beginnings of a headache that had nothing to do with his injury. Had all his mates had their heads smacked as well?

“What we are saying,” Freddie said, finally taking pity on the blond. “Is that we are indeed going to finish the tour, and you will be the drummer just like always. End of story.”

Okay, his fellow Brits had gone insane. “You heard the doctor,” Roger snapped, getting a bit heated. “I’ll have these bandages on for a month or more, for the rest of the dates. I can’t play drums blindfolded!”

“Oh yeah, when was the last time you needed to follow sheet music for either the percussion or the lyrics?” Brian challenged.

“Umnn…well….ok, never,” Roger conceded after a few seconds of thought. “So maybe I can still sing. But how the Hell can I follow the cues to start and end songs without seeing Freddie? Or even find the damn drums?”

“They make these things called headphones now,” Deaky said, his tone sarcastic, but also a bit excited as always when getting to play with electronics. “I’m already rigging one up for you and I to use to communicate privately. I’ll count you down for intros and cut offs. Just listen to me and I’ll make sure you start and end on time.”

“You two already share some freakish telepathic rhythm bond anyway,” Freddie said dismissively, and at least his voice was back to its usual cheerful optimism. “I promise no surprises with the songs. And between the three of us, we will get you comfortably situated before each show. You just sit on your cute arse anyway, darling.”

Roger had always been blessed with a pretty good sense of direction, and he made a lucky punch, smacking Freddie’s arm. Unfortunately, it just delighted the singer. “See! You don’t need to see!”

Roger wanted to smoother someone -anyone- with a pillow. “Brian?” he pleaded, not caring that his voice had a distinct whine quality to it. “Will you please talk some sense into these morons?”

But calm, logical, scientific Brian had apparently been infected with this insane virus. “Hey, we don’t expect you to go out tonight and play. Remember, we have a week before the next show. We’ll practice. Your drum kit…what’s left of it anyway….is being set up in the garage at the house. And before you start throwing yourself a pity party,” (which honestly, had been Roger’s next tactic), “we NEED you, mate. We aren’t pitying you one damn bit. You’re our drummer and singer, and we need you. Plain and simple. So suck it up, right?”

Roger opened his mouth….and then shut it. He had no idea what to say. 

“So, easy, decision made!” Freddie clapped his hands in glee. “Oh, and one more benefit, I am taking over as your personal dresser since you are usually incapable of wearing good clothes even when you can see. It’s a blessing in disguise, it truly is.”

And that’s when Roger felt real panic and knew he was doomed.  
*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors notes: Yep, the red silk tie that Rami wears for the “We will rock you” scene. That is exactly what I envisioned when writing these chapters.
> 
> And I am playing fast and loose with the medical accuracy. Please keep that in mind 😊


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone, for the kudos and kind comments. They are all teasured!

Chapter Three

Dr. Lewis returned as promised that afternoon, and was informed of the insane plan (as Roger thought of it). It seemed that even Freddie and his overwhelming confidence had realized that they might need a reality check. 

“Provided, of course, if its alright for him to play,” Deaky explained. “We know he has to rest for a while, but in a week, would it be….er….safe…for him to play?” He had been reading literature on head injuries, and holding side conferences with Brian and Freddie when the other three thought that Roger was dozing.

“He really just sits,” Freddie supplied helpfully. Roger scowled a bit at that, being rather proud of his drum performances.

There was a thoughtful hum from the doctor. “Well, believe it or not, I have some understanding of a rock and roll performance.” A tone of pride crept into her voice. “I was at Woodstock.”

“You were?” Freddie truthfully sounded awestruck.

“I was indeed, and have a photo album to prove it.’ Roger was back to worshiping the doctor and was pretty sure his mates felt likewise. She was obviously a goddess. “Today is Saturday; I need to see Mr. Taylor on Tuesday. Absolutely no practicing until then. If all is well Tuesday, I may be willing to clear him to perform starting in a week, provided certain conditions are met. He needs to rest as much as possible; so limited action between performances or practices. His pulse and blood pressure should also be checked on a regular basis, especially during performance breaks. If they go above certain levels, then its not safe for him to continue.”

“Fair enough,’ Brian agreed on behalf of everyone, and Roger felt an opportunity open.

“We do need a backup drummer,” he insisted after Dr. Lewis left. “I am only going to agree to his madness if we have a plan in place.” After a pause, there were assorted sounds of acknowledgement from the other three men.

“Alex will be backup,” Freddie decided reluctantly. “But don’t think you get out of singing, darling. I’ve heard you sing perfectly well in the tub, and while laying semi-passed out face down on a couch. I dare say you could handle it.

“No bed on stage,” Roger warned, and was immediately assured it would be perfectly presentable. Perhaps a stool by the drum kit. Deaky said he could easily wire Alex into the private sound system they three of them would now share for timing the intros and finales for songs.

“We can also lower the harmony a bit on some of the songs,” John mussed thoughtfully and Roger through that he heard the scratch of paper or pen on paper. “Less stain on your voice, Rog.”

“Lower keys,“ Freedie agreed. “We can do that.” There was a light pat on Roger’s hand. “But at least a tambourine, darling, or a simple snare drum. I know there is no way you can just sing for 2-3 hours without spontaneously combusting. We simply cannot have that.”

“Alright,” Roger said reluctantly. He felt that it was a reasonable enough compromise that did give him an exit strategy if it proved to be too much. But he will willing to try. If his bandmates were crazy enough to want him to try, then he would indeed try for them.

The rest of the day passed in usual Queen commotion. Dr. Lewis gave the band and Steve strict instructions on the daily care for changing the bandages and the long list of medicine; phone calls were placed so Roger could talk to his family; and a physical therapist came in for a crash course in being temporarily blinded. That had been interesting….and embarrassing.

“So visualize a clock,” the therapist instructed. “The lunch tray is the clock. The chicken is at 12 o’clock, vegetables at 4:00, and bread at 8:00. Dessert is above the clock, at the 10:00 position. Beverages should go above 2:00. Just keep it consistent.”

In what Roger could only accept as proof of ultimate loyalty, the rest of the band was eating the hospital food, joining in on all the lessons. There was plenty of fumbling and Roger knew that he likely had food spilled all over him and the bed, but at least some of it got inside his body.

“Fish and chips or pizza will be easier…finger food,” Brian assured the drummer. “We’ll keep it simple.”

“Fair enough,” the therapist agreed. There was a faint snapping, clicking, sound. “Now, as for the cane –“

“That really won’t be necessary darling,” Freddie chimed in. “We have it well in hand.”

Roger scowled. “Oh, come on, guys, I need to use it. You can’t possible be with me every….” He trailed off, sensing something when there was a conspicuous silence. “Deaky…did you draw up one of your damn schedules?” he demanded suspiciously. 

“I did in fact,” the bassist said proudly. “At least one of the three of us will be with you every minute day and night.”

“Oh for God’s sake,” Roger muttered, but he knew there was really nothing to be done about it. The therapist was dismissed after a quick lesson in managing the cane, Roger awkwardly taking a few steps around the room, swinging the stick about while the other three took turns holding his free arm, and then it was just the four of them again.

“Its really not that bad,” Roger admitted as he was tucked back into bed – he suspected it was Brian’s long hands wrapping a blanket around him as if he were a Victorian invalid. There was a swishing noise, and Roger was positive that Freddie was messing with the cane.

“Bit like my half mic stand,” Freddie agreed. “A nice enough prop, I grant it, but unnecessary.”

“If he wants it, he gets it,” Brian warned the other two. Roger could have kissed their guitarist for realizing that Roger needed at least some independence. Freddie sometimes had way too much enthusiasm and positive vibe that he needed an occasional reality check, and John tended to have his nose in an electronics manual and could be pretty oblivious at times. Roger was the first to admit that his temper could get the better of him. Brian was the one who tended to keep all four of them on a steady course. “But yeah, you won’t need it much, mate.” Roger was back to scowling. “Deaky’s schedule is more detailed than some of my textbooks. And he keeps fine tuning it so much that I can’t keep up with it.”

There was a fake gasp from Freddie. “Someone, please, write this down. Sir Isaac is saying that something is too complicated for him.” ‘Sir Isaac’ was Freddie’s occasional nickname for the guitarist, given his physical resemblance to the famous scientist and Brian’s love of astronomy. 

“Poodle,” Roger said suddenly. There was a pause and he knew the other three were staring at him, likely wondering if he had gone daft. “If you are going to be my seeing eye dogs, then Bri’s nickname is now officially Poodle.”

“Hey!” Brian protested, but without any heat. Next to music, of course, teasing was what the four of them did best.

“And Deaky,” Roger continued, inspiration striking. “Deaky is…Shepard. For German shepherd.”

“I’ll have you know that I neither bark nor snarl,” Deaky muttered in a very mild tone, but like Brian, he was going along with it.

“You’re going to be my lead on the stage. Get used to it or I’ll call you Sheepy like a sheep dog. Sheepy Deaky.”

“I have no problem with Shepard,” Deaky agreed instantly.

“And me?” Freddie’s voice was full of eagerness. Like always, he was only too happy to join in on any sort of game.

Brian and Deaky started throwing out suggestions: “Mutt.” “Ankle bitter.” “Hairless Chihuahua.” (“Get real….hairless?”). “Bulldog”. “Great Dane.” “Pom Pom for Pomeranian.” “King - no, Queen - Charles Spaniel.” (Freddie seemed to like that one and it admittedly had a bit of a ring to it).

“Well?” Freddie demanded. Roger could picture him standing there, hands on hips. So, so many possibilities. Roger savored his power.

“I will let you know,” he announced  
*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors notes: I read a very funny comment on You Tube about how nice it was to see Sir Isaac Newton performing on stage. I figured it would be a good nickname for Brian.
> 
> I do have Freddie’s canine nickname in mind, but am open to suggestions. Please send them on!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for all the kind comments and kudos! They are so very much appreciated.

“…and then, um…. 1,2,3,4,5…five steps from the bed to the bathroom.”

“Five giant steps you mean, you lanky hulk,” Freddie countered Brian. “Six human steps, Roger darling. Brian, I’m proud that you can count, but no more pacing off steps for Rog.”

There was a rustle of papers. “Better make it seven steps,” John decided. “It says here that it’s not unusual to instinctively take smaller steps than you normally would until you get used to it. So, seven steps. Got it Roger?”

The drummer sighed. “As if you are going to let me take many steps alone.”

“Right.” “Damn straight.” ‘Of course.” Three voices agreed. Three utterly mad mother hens, in Roger’s opinion.

Roger had been discharged from the hospital earlier that Sunday morning, the band led out some side exit (Freddie had asked for the mortuary door, and been firmly shot down). Getting in the waiting limo wasn’t hard (though Roger personally thought that Freddie had been rather too hands on in making sure that the seat belt was firmly fastened), but ever since they had arrived at the house where they would be staying, Roger had been coming to grips with the reality of not being able to see. It had been a bit easier when just in the hospital room; now he was out in the big giant world. 

Deaky was speedreading literature that the therapist had given them, and was in charge of ratting off info on how to help Roger acclimate to one area at a time. They were currently in the master bedroom where Roger would be staying, counting how many steps to navigate to various spots. Roger was of course keen to know the layout of the room so he hopefully wouldn’t trip and break his legs, but suspected that it was a tad pointless since it was very clear that he wasn’t going to be left alone. Exiting the limo and getting to the bedroom, John had held one of Roger’s arms and Brian had the other, keeping their drummer safely tucked between them while Freddie led the way through the house.  
Bless him, Freddie had done his best to make it like a game of Blind Man’s Bluff, calling out “steps!” and “corner!” so Roger had some idea what to expect. And John and Brian were getting pretty good at understanding the difference between guiding Roger, and manhandling him. They let him set the pace, something the therapist had been very stern about when giving instructions. Roger had to feel that he had as much control as possible.

From what Roger could tell, and what he was told, the house was quite large, which was fortunate since in addition to the 4 bandmates, Steve and a few other trusted crew were staying with them; Steve’s number one job to watch over Roger. Dr. Lewis had shown Steve how to change the bandages every day, with John and Brian as his assistants. Freddie was Steve’s backup in charge of the assorted medicine, which had a pretty strict time table. This made Roger rather nervous, given Freddie’s notoriously bad sense of time when off stage, but so far he had been spot on.

Freddie, Brian, and John had all insisted on knowing how to check Roger’s pulse and blood pressure, with Roger rather feeling like a human guinea pig. John, of course, had instantly caught on how to use the blood pressure monitor, and Brian’s long fingers were perfect for finding a pulse. Freddie was equally good at accurately taking a pulse; it was just his teasing claim that that the groin area was a perfectly good location as a neck or wrist that had Roger smacking his hands away.

Right now, Roger was being “allowed” to sit in a chair for a bit, but he suspected it wouldn’t be for much longer. He would deny it, but just the car ride and getting to the bedroom had tired him out and he was pretty disorientated. The meds were likely not helping either….he would blame them.

“So, here’s the plan for the day.” More paper rustled and Deaky cleared his throat. “Its now just before 2:00. Freddie and I are meeting the press at an office downtown at 4:00, mostly to just assure folks that you are still alive. Freddie’s request to exit hospital via the morgue was so NOT helpful, by the way. So we need to leave soon. Brian is on duty until we get back. Then I take over primary until bedtime, and then Freddie the night owl comes on. Freddie, remember that Roger will be due for a dose of meds when we return and then again at bedtime; Steve said he’s sorting out all the bottles now. Brian, did you check with whoever is ordering food to ensure that tea and supper are finger foods? Roger, what are you in the mood for?”

Privacy, the drummer thought gloomily. But aloud he answered, “Nothing in particular right now. And since when did you become a drill master, rattling off orders?” Deaky was far from a push-over, though he was the quietest of the group. But his strength to the band was organization, and he was in his element now.

“Wait until you hear tomorrow’s schedule,” Deaky just said, and Roger could hear the smirk in his tone. 

“And speaking of schedules, I think its time you laid down again,” Brian said, and his tone was just a bit too damn cheerful.

“Ah, come on, Mummmmmmm,” Roger whined, but Brian laid large, gentle, hands on his shoulders, guiding him. and before Roger quite knew it, he was being tucked into bed as soon as his shoes were removed. Freddie swore by all that was holy that the sweats and t-shirt Roger had been dressed in at the hospital were “perfectly plain….dreadfully so, actually”, but Brian and John had declined comment, which made Roger suspicious. 

Brian being on “Roger duty” meant reading aloud some newspaper clippings and fan mail that had reached them through the management offices. It was really quite touching, the well wishes and encouragement and prayers that he would heal quickly.

“So does anyone know of this wildly stupid plan for me to try to actually play?” Roger asked during tea. Brian responded by flicking one of Roger’s knees. “Hey!” he protested.

“Sorry dear, but every time you say something stupid, that is what you get. And as for your question, Freddie and Deaky are informing everyone today. I suspect the news tomorrow will be full of it.”

“Still think its stupid,” Roger muttered around a sandwich, and sure enough, there was another light flick. “Ok, ok, whatever.” 

One positive thing of Brian being on duty, Roger decided, was that the guitarist was a tad more lenient about letting Roger use the cane and practice a bit around the bedroom. It turned out that Deaky’s seven step direction from bed to bathroom door was spot on, and Brain humbly conceded that he was not a good standard of measurement for the shorter drummer.

Brian got out his guitar after tea, and they brainstormed new song ideas, continuing when Freddie and John returned. It was….nice….actually, the four of them being lazy, tossing around lyrics and Brian adding some cords here and there. Freddie said that there was a piano downstairs, and that tomorrow they should gather there when Roger was “allowed” to be up for a few hours. There was more rustling of papers, and Roger suspected that John was penciling in something on the schedule. 

“Just a few more days of bed rest, darling,” Freddie said. “The lovely Dr. Lewis said you can move about more in a day or two. But tomorrow is still mostly up here in bed.”

“Fabulous,” Roger snarked.

By unanimous decision, dinner was pizza, which Roger needed no assistance with. He did hold that belated pity party for himself, however, when beer was not put in his hands (he damn well knew the sound of a bottle opener when he heard one) and called in Steve, who ruled that one beer – and not one drop more – was permissible. After that, it got rather silly, with Freddie and Brian getting into some discussion and then disagreement about round versus square clock faces, and did it even make a difference. Roger willingly served as a test subject, with the guys putting food first on the square pizza box, and then on a round plate, and Roger testing how easily he could find things (John recorded the data). Freddie openly sulked when Roger confirmed that no matter what, the clock face he visualized (Big Ben), was round and that it was a tad easier with the round plate, and Brian made a victory lap around the bed in triumph, saying something about how science was science and whipped arts ass any day.

Deaky broke it up before things got too heated and held the changing of Roger duty, with Freddie now in charge for the night shift (Roger may have said a few prayers). But he was easily assisted in a quick wash up and Freddie refrained from any jokes or teasing while helping Roger into pajamas, again swearing that they were nothing Roger wouldn’t wear on his own.

“Alright, dear, now into bed with you,” Freddie directed after giving Roger his assortment of bedtime pills and confidentially guiding the younger man back to the massive bed. Deaky and Brian had changed the sheets after some pizza accidents and said their good nights.

“Do I get a story?” Roger said, only half joking.

“Darling, but of course! Or would you prefer a song or two?” And with no further prompting, Freddie began singing really quite softly and gently, trying out new lyrics for a ballad they had been discussing.

It was really nice, to just relax and listen to Freddie sing. He was a rock singer through and through, but he could do a slow ballad just as perfectly. Roger was usually too busy at this point in the song writing process of figuring out the percussion, and it was a nice change now to just get to listen. He yawned and mumbled a request for the singer to continue when Freddie made himself comfortable in the bed beside him. He wasn’t surprised that Freddie was literally sharing the bed with him, and had no issues with it; in fact, it was surprisingly comfortable and reassuring. Freddie cocooned Roger in a wall of pillows, and tucked covers around him firmly, claiming it was for the drummer’s own benefit to protect his head. Roger could barely move by the time Freddie was finished, but it was alight. Between general exhaustion, medication, and Freddie’s soft singing, he was soon nearly asleep.

“G’night, Terrier,” Roger mumbled around another yawn.

Freddie paused in his quiet singing. “Terrier?”

“Your nickname.” Roger smiled sleepily. “Dandie Dinmont Terrier. I reserve the right to alter it to *Terror* whenever I wish. But yes, Terrier.”

There was a soft laugh and then a kiss to his forehead. “Happily accepted,” Freddie agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors note: If you google Dandie Dinmont Terror, er…I mean, *Terrier*, it does make me think a little bit of Freddie, what with the mop of hair and such. And with the name “dandie” in it, well, it just seemed perfect.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors note: Lots of language in this chapter, sorry 😊 Roger has been an absolute angel so far; time to cut loose…..

Chapter Five

Monday seemed to go on forever for Roger, who was never good at patience. He did get John to read some of the press that had appeared overnight, with news of the band’s announcement that they would perform as scheduled that Saturday…and that Roger would be back to drumming baring any medical issues. Roger trusted that John would read him *all* the press, not just the good stuff. Surely people were going nuts and thought this was the dumbest idea ever.

To his surprise, there was a huge outpouring of support and positive press; nothing really negative at all. He made John check and recheck the papers but all they could find was some honest questioning and comments from doctors who cautioned just what Dr. Lewis had said; that the strain could be a bit much for someone with a head injury (Brian commented that Roger was already surely brain damaged before the fall just from a decade of playing drums and getting into fights, and Roger got to flick his knee for a change)  
.   
The doubt from doctors just seemed to create a counter feedback from fans and fellow musicians who said Roger could do anything, and were 100% behind the band. Queen had likely never had so many fans as even folks who admitted that they didn’t really follow their music said they admired their loyalty to their drummer.

And some of the fan quotes that were in the newspaper articles were supportive in the extreme.

“Roger can just sit on a chair and look hot, said one longtime fan from England,” John read from one paper. “I don’t care if he plays or not, I just want to hear his voice.” Another article: “Roger is so sexy, all I need is to see him.” And a third quote: “Who cares about drumming? Roger is so cute all I do is look at his picture anyway.”

“I think I should be jealous, darling,” Freddie drawled as the band ate lunch. “And here I *work* at being sexy; all you need to do is sit on a chair wearing terrible clothes to make the ladies swoon.”

Roger knew he was smirking. “What can I say Freddie? Guess life just isn’t fair now, is it?” Truthfully, he just hoped that people were serious in that they would still support the band even if he personally ended up being a disaster. He pondered having Deaky write ‘sit on chair and look hot’ on the damn schedule.

After lunch, Roger was led down stairs to the piano room and settled on a stuffed chair. He could sense that Freddie and John were hovering, but only Brian had his arm, and Roger shakily used the cane as an extra guide. As with the day before, Freddie helpfully called out steps and turns, and they made it successfully to what was descried to him as the living room. He accepted the chair with what he considered to be considerable grace, admitting privately that just coming walking down the stairs had made him a bit disorientated. At least no one tried to tuck a blanket over his legs or a shawl around his shoulders; that would have made him extremely cross. 

For the next few hours, Freddie played the piano, Brian and John had their guitar and bass, and Roger would have felt quite left out except that the other three kept it strictly a songwriting session, so Roger was involved with the suggestions of lyrics and notes. After he found himself taping his feet and drumming his fingers on the chair, instinctively trying out different beats, Freddie burst into a flood of apologies, and with seconds a tambourine was placed in his hands. It was better than nothing.

Okay, ‘sit on chair, look hot, and play tambourine’ was definitely going to go on the schedule. 

***

Dinner that night was up in Roger’s bedroom – where he had been returned for continued bed rest – and was filled with chat and continued music brainstorming. Roger thought he was all-in-all handing things well, but in typical Roger fashion, his frustration had to appear sooner or later. It happened when Brian tried to be helpful.

“Here, mate, 2:00, you got a bit of beer left.”

Roger angrily grabbed the bottle, drained it, and smacked it down on the bed. “Fuck!” he exploded. Pissed at himself and at life in general at the moment.

There was a short pause. Then a simple lazy “Yes?” from Freddie. It just ticked Roger off more.

“Fuck the accident,” and Roger was off on a rant, all the stress of the past three days exploding. “Fuck those damn risers and who set them up. Fuck me falling. Fuck these bandages. Fuck the cane and it all. Fuck that I can only have one beer. And Fuck you twits for thinking that this will work.”

“Go on.” John was usually off limits for Roger’s zeroed individual rage, but he turned on the bassist with that reasonable comment.

“You are utterly daft, all of you,“ he snarled. “Fuck this Deaky, and your bass! I got exhausted walking up and down stairs and sitting on a chair. And you tossers think that I can play the God damn drums in less than a week?”

“You’re the one with the biology degree,” Brian said in perfectly even tone that was usually calming and logical, but now it was just plain ass inappropriate, in Roger’s opinion. “Its been less than 72 hours since a head injury and you’re medicated to the gills. Of course, you’re going to get exhausted easily.”

Roger picked up a something at the 6:00 position (screw whatever it was) and tossed it randomly. Then everything within reach went flying. “Yeah, that my point!” he seethed. “Jesus Christ, you lot are idiots. You won’t even let me out of bed, I got exhausted walking down a flight of stairs, and you fuckers think that I can play the drums in concert in….5 days? You are crazy and you’re screwed if you think this will work!”

There was a pause. “Roger, darling,” and oh, Hell, it was Freddie’s manager tone. Still, Roger wasn’t backing down this time, and he tuned and openly snarled in the direction of the singer’s voice. Bring it, Freddie.

“Roger, none of us can image what you are going through.” Damn, it was a good opening, Roger had to concede. Still, he had a hold of.,,.something…a pillow, he thought, and he wasn’t going to let it go. “But we more than know what you are capable of. I apologize if we haven’t been more forthcoming. You are our drummer, dear, and as we said, one just has to suck it up. Will we drag your arse on out stage against your will? No, never. We will respect what you want and are comfortable with.” And damn it, Roger believed him. “But we do *want* you on stage with us. We are a group. We need each other. And this isn’t pity, or whatever else you may have in your very blond head.”

“We aren’t setting up some freak show, Roger, if that’s what you have in mind.” Brian said quietly, his tone surprisingly deadly. “You may or may not remember, but we have talked to Alex, just like you suggested. He does know the songs, and he’s amazing. Also you may or may not remember, but it’s just 5 more performances and then we’re done with the tour and headed hack home.”

“Sit on chair, look hot, and play tambourine,” said Deaky. Shit, it was his do-not-mess-with-me-voice. Calm, almost robotic, but absolutely cutting in the extreme. “Think you can’t do that, you wanker? Think we would let you fail in just doing that? That’s ever so nice to know.”

Fuck. Roger surged out of bed, not giving a damn what may or may not be in his way. A second to orientate himself, foaming at the mouth that he would tear off any hands that dared to touch him, and he stormed seven steps and thank you, Jesus, he was at the bathroom door. He slammed the door shut and slummed to the floor, his back barricading the door. Not quite the cupboard, but close enough.

He had no idea how much time passed. Occasionally he heard whispers, his bandmates apparently conferring. Steve, who apparently was the bravest of them all, came to door at some point, and Roger very reluctantly let him in on the conditions of meds only. The medic didn’t say a word as he took his pulse and blood pressure, and then put some pills in his right hand and a glass of water in his left hand. It was only after Roger complied in taking the meds that the soon-to-be doctor paused.

“Mr. Taylor,” he said, cleared his throat, and Roger guested for him to continue. He liked the guy. “I know it’s really none of my business, and I know next to nothing about music,” he admitted with a laugh. “But, your friends out there; they truly do want only what is best for you. They would rather die than set you up for failure, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Roger managed a dry laugh. “Do you think this is possible?”

“Medically? Absolutely,” Steve said, and Roger had to look up in the direction of his voice. “I’ve completed my rounds on hospital wards, and trust me, Sir, I’ve seen people with a lot less…um…..attitude…than you succeed.” Roger had to laugh at the analysis. “I had a mate who was deaf and played on our football team, and trust me, no on messed with him. And as for your bandmates, I wouldn’t mess with them either.” Roger could feel the man shudder. “I know we don’t know each other every well, Sir, but those three out there do know you. They have your back.”

“Sod off with the ‘Sir’ stuff,” Roger mumbled.

“Of course, Mr. Taylor….Roger…” he amended at Roger’s growl. “And since we are now on a first-name basis, I have to advise you that they are absolutely making me and everyone else nuts with making sure that you are alright.” There was a calculated pause. “Do you want some good gossip?”

“God, yes, please.”

20 minutes later, Steve exited the bathroom, simply giving the three other members of Queen his best ‘doctors’ face, and declining any comment. To their relief, Roger soon excited the bathroom as well, and was surprisingly compliant in returning to bed. He apologized for his outburst, which really should have been his band mate's first suspicion. Then he didn’t make simple peep when all three crashed on the bed with him.

What they didn’t know was how he secretly comforted himself (and stored data for future blackmail) when he woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep that night….

John – practicing the blood pressure monitor on everyone in sight and had been spotted jumping up and down (“to get himself excited”) and try to establish a physical baseline for blood pressure safety.

Freddie – pictures of him taking the pulse of a stray cat, and then documentation of him calling a vet and demanding to know if it was normal. 

Brian – hunching in on himself, taking “baby steps”, mumbling about the space between asteroids. Since his victory over Freddie about round vs square plates, was also apparently in charge of plating all of Rogers food, and was getting rather irritated when Freddie (or occasionally John) tried to mess with his scientific measurement perfection. 

Yeah, with mates like this, it just might work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO much for the kudos, bookmarks, and comments. They are all treasured.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Late Tuesday morning Dr. Lewis cleared Roger to practice, provided that his pulse and blood pressure were monitored. She also freed him from the bed rest, and Roger was grateful for that. He was also grateful that she had already set up contacts with her fellow specialists in the three cities that they would play the remaining 5 shows in, making sure that his medical records would be forwarded and they would be on call if necessary. And she had a surprise for him.

“I’ve talked to Dr. Reed in the city you will last play in, and trust his judgement about taking off the bandages,” she said. “And when the bandages do come off, this for you.” She laid something heavy in his lap and Roger could feel a medium sized box. “No one gets a look at it before Mr. Taylor…is that understood?”

“Yes Ma’am,” the fellow members of Queen responded dutifully. They respected her big time.

Roger was now trying to not throw up from nerves as Brian led him into the garage for what he was sure was going to be a disaster. It had been described to him as “a huge American ass 3 car garage” and just from the way sound bounced, Roger could tell it was indeed huge. More than enough practice space, although Freddie would be using a smaller keyboard than usual. It would be fine though, for their purposes.

“Everything is set up exactly as always,” Alex assured him. Roger thanked his tech, praying that the familiarity of his kit would be enough. He heard Freddie politely dismissing Alex and then it was just the four of them, ready to work.

“Here, mate, your stool is right here. Sit.” John guided him, and Roger took his seat. Hands on his shoulders helped him to spin the stool a little, and Roger could feel the peddles under his feet, helping him get orientated. 

Sticks were placed in his hands. He shifted a little on the stool….

And then things simply, utterly, *clicked* into place. He could feel his drums around him, embracing him like the friends they were. For the first time in days he knew exactly what was around him and how he was orientated. He could tell how far away each drum was within centimeters. Without even realizing it, he twirled his beloved drum sticks and they did exactly what they wanted him to do. The scary darkness that he had been in for four days faded a bit, and he was focused not on what he couldn’t see, but on what he could feel. This was his own world.

For about 20 minutes he warned up, his entire body now on auto pilot, adjusting a few things, feeling the sticks settle right into his hands. He taped out a few of his favorite beats, the rhythm sections for songs he had written, and felt a spark of confidence begin to grow as his kit made every sound he asked of it. Each piece of his kit was right where he wanted it to be and he didn’t need to see to know that. The other three men were silent, letting Roger get orientated. Finally, Roger stopped and cleared his throat.

“Okay,” he said. Messing around with an individual warmup was one thing; playing a song with three others was another level.

“Start whenever you’re ready mate,” Brian said softly, encouraging. “You got the lead on this. We’re following you.” They had deliberately picked a very specific song to start with; short of falling off the stool, Roger figured that there was next to no way he could mess this one up.

Roger took a deep breath and nodded. He shrugged his shoulders just like he always did – one final loosening up – and then he started playing.

Time paused; he was back playing and absolutely nothing was wrong in the universe. John and Freddie came in, then Brian, and Roger was right with them. When Brian started playing, it was as normal as always and they ended perfectly in unison. 

There was a pause….and then Roger got disorientated when warm arms grabbed him from behind. “Marvelous! Simply marvelous! I knew it!” Freddie was squeezing him to death.

“Geez, Fred, yeah, how hard is this song anyway? We don’t even need drums really, and I mean, I could play it---” Roger stopped, realizing what he was about to say. Then he grinned and started spinning his drum sticks with confidence. “I could play it blindfolded.”

There were bursts of laughter from his bandmates, and Roger was hauled up from his chair and enfolded into a huge group hug. All the worry of the past days disappeared again, and they were back doing what they did naturally. A little voice told Roger that there was still a lot of hard work ahead, but he also knew that anything was possible with the support of his brothers.

“Okay, okay, one song down. Um….20 to go, right?” he finally said, not really wanting to end the moment, but eager to keep the musical momentum going.

“Damn right!” John said cheerfully, and Roger was eased back onto his stool, which had apparently gotten kicked out of the way at some point during the hug fest. He re-orientated himself automatically, making sure that pieces of his kit were where he wanted them to be, not needing to see in order to make adjustments. He hands and feet knew where things should be.

“Fancy a little *pressure*?” Freddie practically purred in his ear, and Roger laughed but obediently started the drum snare and beat.

This crazy plan might just work out after all.

***

No alcohol was needed for the entire band to be high when they finally left the garage hours later. Roger knew they were back in the living room because Freddie started playing the piano, being totally daft with changing lyrics (“Rrrooggg is the chaaaa-mpion…”). 

“Hey Deaky, give me a piece of paper, would you?” Roger asked. “Thanks.” He made a paper airplane and sent it flying in the direction of Freddie’s voice. He knew it made at least some contact when there was a squeak of indignation from the singer and congratulatory pats on his back from Brian and John.

Not all the songs had been perfect, but then sometimes they weren’t for a number of reasons. They settled on some slight changes to the set they had been performing in order to maximize the songs that were easiest for Deaky to give cues to the drummer. They also need to make sure there was a long enough break for Roger to be backstage for a checkup from Steve and to generally rest for a bit. Alex would take over drumming for a couple songs, and Roger was glad that his tech was getting the credit and opportunity he deserved.

After dinner, full of hamburgers – and medicine – Roger felt himself coming down from the adrenalin high he had been on during the practice. He dozed off for a few minutes against Freddie’s shoulder in the living room and woke to the sound of his bandmates speaking softly. Curious, Roger didn’t move, not wanting to indicate that he was awake. 

“—so damn proud of him. I mean, I knew he could do it, but it was most important for him to know that he can do it,” Brian was saying.

“Did you see his face? Even with the bandages over his eyes, you could see his expression. I swear, no different than when we’re on stage. He knew what he was doing the entire time. It was amazing.”

“Our dear Roger is always amazing, Deaky,” Freddie said, and for once, his voice was soft, clearly not wanting to disturb the drummer. “He is going to be just fine. Mighty fine, actually.”

Brian and John groaned in unison, making Roger suspect that Freddie was using his almost-trademark innuendo/leering expression.

“I’m awake, you know,” Roger said suddenly, and he enjoyed the little jump from Freddie. It was rare to catch him off guard. “Seriously guys, I’m blushing.”

There was a round of chuckles. “Well, if you are awake, then its time to go back to bed,” John said teasingly, and there was the rustle of paper again. 

“Alright,” Roger said agreeably. He had to admit that he was tired, and he was too happy to be cross about anything at the moment. “So who is on duty now?”

“Freddie. He pretty much has all the night shifts.”

“Ah.” Roger turned in Freddie’s direction, and let himself smirk. “Deaky, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but can you add something to that thrice-damned schedule?”

“Sure. What is it?”

Roger turned up the smirk, and *so* wished he could see. He would have to beg Brian and John later for every little detail. “Cross out ‘Freddie’, and write in Dandie Dinmont Terrier.”

There were bursts of laughter from John and Brian. “Oh God, that is so perfect.” Brian agreed. 

“Done,” John seconded in-between giggles. Judging by the sounds, he was snorting with laughter every time he crossed out Freddie’s name and wrote in the new nickname.

“You are just jealous, Poodle, Shepherd, and you know it,” Freddie said grandly. “Come now.” He took Roger’s arm and guided him to stand.

“One sec,” Roger ordered. He held out his hand. “Who has the cane? Hand it over, mates.” Someone obligingly put it in his hand. “Okay, lead on, Dandie.”

That night, Roger confidentially needed just six steps to the bathroom and navigated about the bedroom with ease. To Freddie’s credit, he just sat back and watched his friend with pride.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors note: Bet you can guess what song they started with, can’t you? 😊 I have done a slight time setting change to early 1980's


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible Warning/Trigger: Doctor prescribed drug use. Not illegal, not illicit. Just FYI.

Chapter Seven

Wednesday morning John reluctantly told Roger that someone in the press had gotten pictures of them leaving the hospital the day before, and were now in all the papers. Roger scowled, but knew that there wasn’t much to be done about it. After a few moments of self-pity, he asked the most serious question: “How does my hair look in those pictures?” He could feel that the bandages wrapped around his head were pretty wide, and suspected that they were making his hair look even wilder than usual. It was probably sticking straight up. Plus he hadn't been able to wash it since he'd left the hospital. 

Deaky chuckled in pleased surprise. “Good, really good, honest, mate,” he assured him. “You look just fine.” He read some of the articles that were accompanying the pictures, and Roger had to concede that the stories weren’t too bad. He also didn’t doubt John’s descriptions of the photos (John was a horrible liar, and didn’t exaggerate), and it sounded like the pics were reasonable enough.

“Okay,” Roger sighed. Again, there wasn’t much to be done about it.

They practiced for hours for the next few days, refining the order of the new set and bringing in Alex on a second drum kit. Roger wanted to make damn sure that if he messed up, then someone capable would be there to take over. They also practiced cues for John to give Roger and it was reassuring to have the bassist’s calm voice in Roger’s ear, the headphones working perfectly (Roger had total faith in Deaky’s ability with electronics).

They left for the private airport that the company had arranged for late Friday night, hoping to avoid as much publicity as possible. The plan was to fly to the next city, check into the hotel about midnight, and sleep in before going to the auditorium in the afternoon for practice and then staying there for their Saturday performance. Roger was feeling alright until the limo stopped at the airport and suddenly, he was back in a big empty world with no idea what was around him. He hadn't realized how secure he had become in the house.

“I got you, mate,” Freddie said, for once his voice amazing calm and soft. He had hold of Roger’s left arm, letting Roger awkwardly wield the cane with his right hand, and easily guided him through the small airport.

“People are looking, aren’t they?” Roger hissed.

“A few, yes,” Freddie said, honest as usual. “But sod them. Hold your head high, darling. You have far more courage than they do….and plus, you’re better looking.” Roger had to laugh a little. He had been relieved that Dr. Lewis had approved slightly narrower bandages over his eyes now, and Freddie had worked magic with a hat (that Brian and John swore was totally cool) and brushing Roger’s long bangs in such a way that they all firmly agreed almost completely covered the bandages. Roger could also feel Brian and John beside him, their trusted crew nearby as well, and realized that it was unlikely that anyone could get a really good look at him. He could feel that he was in the middle of a very protective huddle, and appreciated it.

It was amazingly difficult getting into the small private plane, suddenly even the simplest of things jarring again as the outside noises were a bit overwhelming without visual cues. Freddie, Brian and John were beside him the whole time, helping when needed but just as importantly letting Roger do whatever he could, patiently knowing know when to help and when to let Roger find his own way with verbal directions. He let himself be guided into a seat but then buckled himself in, thank you very much.

The flight was thankfully short, and then John had his arm, guiding him to another waiting car for the trip to the hotel. The hotel was another huge scary vacuum as they were ushered in through some service entrance, and Roger wasn’t too proud to be glad that John and Brian were on either side of him again holding his arms (sod the cane, right now), and Freddie was in front, doing all the talking as usual. The other three members of Queen and their crew were keeping Roger surrounded and protected, and it was exactly what he needed. Roger kept a smile pasted on his face, not doubting that he looked like a fool as there were some strange voices as they were greeted by hotel staff and taken to their suite, but trying very hard to keep his head high as Freddie wanted. Brian had explained that they were sharing a three-bedroom suite so they could all be together and Roger was glad for it.

It didn’t take too long, but still Roger was relieved when they were in their private suite. Steve came by to dole out the evening medicine and then it was just the band again. Before Roger quite knew what was happening, John was recording the number of steps for navigation, making sure everyone knew the right number, Brian had a midnight snack perfectly plated, and then Freddie was putting pajamas in his hands and guiding him to the bathroom. Roger fumbled a little while washing up, but trusted that the other three were keeping their word to not come in unless he requested help. 

Changed into what Freddie swore were plain pajamas, Roger let Freddie guide him back to the large bed, and he didn’t say a word when the other three made themselves comfortable on the bed as well, not seeming to have any intention of leaving. Brian started softly playing the Red Special, and they talked about music, football, movies, whatever came to their minds….except the show in less than 20 hours. Roger finally screwed up his courage.

“Look guys,” he said, nervously twisting a bedcover. “Remember, if I….screw up…I am so damn sorry, but you have to—”

“Roger, its alright.” John’s calm, logical voice was exactly what they all needed to hear, Roger most of all. “We’ve all practiced. We got your back, mate. No matter what happens, we got it covered.”

“No one will say a word if you need to stop at any point, or even if you change your mind right as we’re going on stage” Brian promised. “Remember, we got a signal worked out. Steve isn’t going to be more than a meter away from you the entire time. Just turn around, drop your drumsticks, and he’ll have you until one of us can get to you. Alex is ready to take over at any point, but he won’t until he gets the signal from one of us. He is there to support you, so you just do whatever you are comfortable with.”

Freddie didn’t say a word for once, just put his arms around him, and it was what Roger needed most of all. Fuck the bandages; he stared to cry a bit. He had been strong for 6 days, but the dam had finally broke. Stress from the accident, worry what might happen long-term, terror about the next few weeks. Fear of the darkness that he was wrapped in.

He hadn’t cried once, but now it was all coming out. The bandages prevent him from shedding all of the tears that were inside him but a few still escaped while he shook and felt helpless.

And then two more pairs of arms were around him, and Roger could hear everyone’s soft sobs. He was surrounded by his brothers, all four of them in one giant hug, and they were with him when he was bright and cocky, and when he was diminished and needed help.

“It will be alright,” Freddie murmured, running a hand through Roger’s hair, ever-so careful of the bandages. “No matter what; it will be alright.”

“I can’t let you down,” Roger sobbed. 

“You couldn’t do that even if you wanted to,” Brian said softly. “Just being here is enough, mate. I’m so damn sorry if we haven’t made it clearer; you’re the one in charge, Rog. We will do whatever you want.”

“It’s all up to you.” And damn if John’s gentle voice just didn’t make Roger try to cry even more. “We love you, Roger, we got you.”

“For better or for worse,” Freddie said, managing to make the words teasing and light yet serious, and it made Roger sob and laugh at the same time, exactly what he needed; Freddie’s lightness and his seriousness all wrapped up together.

Things got vague after that. Soft sidebar murmurs between his bandmates, and then two pills being put in Roger’s right hand and he being gently coached to take them.

“Doctor prescribed, perfectly safe,” John said. “We’ve had them on hand.” He had been the stable cornerstone of the past days, taking it upon himself to describe the world whenever necessary and yet also know what could be turned out. It was a measure of his trust that Roger swallowed the pills right away, accepting them and the glass of water that was offered and asking questions only later.

“What is it?”

“Mild sedative,” Brian said. “It’s well past midnight; time for even rock stars to be in bed.” Roger laughed, trying to not cry again. He didn’t want to have the bandages changed for second time that day.

“I took a pill, too,” Freddie suddenly volunteered.

“Me too,” John said.

“And me,” Brian added. 

Roger choked on another combination of a sob and a laugh. “And we who says we don’t do drugs,” he said weakly. 

“Sex is off the table for the time being,” Freddie chuckled quietly as he gathered Roger in his arms, guiding him to rest his head on the singer’s shoulder. Roger curled up like a child against him, practically lying on top of the singer, who encouraged the cuddling. “So we just have to make do with Rock and Roll, I’m afraid. But right now, we all definitely need the sleep.”

Roger hugged their singer tight. “I don’t know even about the Rock and Roll right now” he murmured. Things were starting to get very soft and fuzzy and he was grateful for it. He could feel someone -Brian, he guessed by the hair and long legs - settling in on his other side and the warmth and protection made him sigh in relief. 

“Ah, screw all three. I can do without Sex, Drugs, *and* Rock and Roll, thank you very much,” John said, teasing. Roger reached out, and knew when John’s hand clasped his, the bassist apparently lying on the other side of Freddie, holding their clasped hands together firmly. “You mates are all I need,” he added seriously.

“Agreed,” said Brian. 

There were a few murmurs that Roger was aware of (Freddie fussing in a whisper about the arrangement of pillows to support Roger’s head - “around his head, you wankers, not on *top* of his head”), Brian’s long body protecting Roger from head to toe, and John’s hand never leaving his, tapping out a slower and slower beat that lulled Roger to sleep.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors note: If you have not ever seen the mockumentary “This is Spinal Tap”, I highly recommend it! It is available on iTunes and other assorted formats. My favorite bit is when the drummer musses “Well, as long there’s still sex and drugs, I can do without the Rock and Roll. Actually don’t care for the Rock and Roll much at all, now that you mention it.”
> 
> And the character of “Steve” is completely and utterly based on Captain America, Steve Rogers, as portrayed by Chris Evans (with the beard) 😊 
> 
> Apologies for the short chapter. The next will be longer!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for the kind comments and kudos!

Chapter Eight

Mornings of performance days typically went one of two extremes for Roger: either he would sleep in up to the second they left for the venue, planning to be up all night, or he would be awake early, hyped up and drumming on anything he could find to try to work off nervous energy. Insomnia was not an uncommon thing in the world of rock and roll and Roger was usually a prime example of it.

This particular morning he slept in mostly because of exhaustion and the sedative, but also because his bandmates refused to let him move. 

“What time is it?” Roger yawned when he first woke up, rather disorientated. 

“Far too early, dear. Go back to sleep,” Freddie said, tightening his grip on the drummer.

Roger obediently dozed off again, but awoke when there was a slight movement on the bed, sensing that someone else was joining him. There was apparently a changing of the Roger duty underway. 

“What time—“

“Hush.” It was John this time. The bassist re-tucked the covers around Roger. “Plenty of time for more sleep.”

“Umf,” Roger agreed, settling back down. If John said there was time, then there was time; one did not argue with John about timing. Roger took another cat nap. 

Roger woke up again when Brian took over, and he at least had the decency to tell Roger the time and updated schedule. “Just past noon. Car isn’t coming for us until 4pm so we can still be lazy for a bit unless you’re hungry. The plan is that after a sound check around 5:00 or so, we will just chill in the dressing room and have dinner. We go on stage at 8:00.”

“Don’t you need to wash your hair? That alone takes hours,” Roger teased, yawning. 

Brian chucked and guided one of Roger’s hands so he could feel the damp curls. “Already washed. With luck, yeah, it might be dry within the next 8 hours.”

Roger laughed, stretching and feeling better after a solid night of sleep. “I get to wash my hair today,” he reminded Brian. Steve was going to help him. Waterproof bandages had to first be put around his eyes per instructions from Dr. Lewis, but then he could enjoy a full shower and hair wash.

“And then I get to style it,” Freddie’s voice suddenly chimed in, and Roger groaned. 

“Nooooo! Help me, Brian,” he pleaded. He tossed a pillow in the vague direction of Freddie’s voice.

“What? You don’t trust me?” There was a thump and bounce as Freddie apparently threw himself down on the bed. ‘I am devastated; truly devastated.” 

“And I’m terrified enough” Roger answered tartly, but smiling, “without having to worry about how you’re going to treat me as some live dress-up doll.”

A hand gently patted his head. “My dress-up dolls always look perfect, darling. Head to toe.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Roger groaned. “I swear to God, Freddie, if I find out later—“

Roger’s threat was cut off by a polite cough that also sounded a lot like a laugh. “Well now that these idiots have you well and truly awake, Roger, how about we order some lunch?” It was John, and Roger felt when he sat on the bed, joining the other three men so they were all together again. “What sounds good?”

“Everything!” To Hell with it, Roger was just going to go with the flow, and he was indeed starving. 

“Then everything it is,” John chuckled, and picked up the phone to place a huge order.

Lunch was relaxed and easy, full of teasing, and Freddie and Brian had yet another argument about plate shapes. Apparently, the large serving platters sent up from hotel catering were oblong, and Brian was a little bit pissed since it threw off the clock shape, even though there were normal round plates for individual eating from. He was just mad to see any shaped plate other than round, knowing Freddie would try to make a point. And the singer did suggest handing Roger an oblong plate, which Brian flatly vetoed even after Roger said he was willing to give it a try. Roger’s food had become something of a turf war with the guitarist, and he was not budging.

All week Brian had been plating Roger’s food (on round plates, thank you) and Roger just happily let himself be served; decided what he wanted after Brian listed off what was available. After the past week, he rather enjoyed it, actually. It had gotten to be pretty silly, him snapping his fingers and demanding another helping. He toyed with the idea of making Brian serve him even after the bandages came off. When the power of his big blue eyes returned, he might be able to pull it off for at least a while. 

Steve put some very sticky, very annoying but waterproof, bandages around Roger’s eyes, and the drummer had a long relaxing shower, glad to be able to wash his hair. He’d been confined to baths while at the house and it was nice to be able to enjoy a shower again. John had piloted him around the huge bathroom, and Roger was able to confidentially find his way out of the shower and to the towels and clothes John had left on a chair nearby. Once he had pulled on the sweats and t-shirt, he called out for Freddie and Steve to enter.

Roger had to endure sitting still for a good 30 minutes while first the waterproof bandages were removed, Freddie dried his hair, and then fussed about how to style it as fresh bandages were wrapped around the drummer’s head. Roger winced more than once as Freddie tugged on a long lock, trying to get it to do something he had in mind, and then bandages had to be re-wrapped. Roger was beginning to wonder if he should have gotten up earlier. 

Steve muttered a few choice words under his breath, but finally Freddie was satisfied. Steve left, still muttering about how style and medicine were not compatible, and Roger called out for him to go talk to Brian, making Freddie huff in indignation.

“Alright, darling, now for a shave,” Freddie announced.

Ah, crap. Roger hadn’t factored that in. He doubted he had much stubble since it took embarrassing weeks for him to get even a hint of a beard or mustache, but he endured Freddie running an electric razor for a minute to clean up. It was embarrassing, but necessary. And Freddie seemed to be really enjoying himself, so Roger decided to continue with the roll-with-it attitude. 

“Alright, happy?” Roger said.

“For now, yes,” Freddie agreed cheerfully. “The real styling will be after sound check, after all.”

Roger sent a few prayers to any and all deities willing to help.

***

Following their established pattern, Brian and John were on either side of Roger while Freddie led the way when they left for the venue. Roger had his head high, and a smile pasted on his face, but this time it felt more secure. Yeah, this might actually work.  
John, bless him, continued to know exactly what to murmur to Roger necessary information and also what to ignore as they made their way onto the stage (“Long hallway…whatever. Just like any other venue. Okay, we’re at your drum kit. Stool in right here. Focus on it”). Roger nodded and accepted the drum sticks that were placed into his hands and set to work fine tuning things as best he could. Truth be told, he often did close his eyes during sound checks, focusing on the sound and beat, and it was comfortable to be with his drums. They were solid and unmoving and he could control them. Freddie, Brian and John were solid in that they were supportive and they all worked together, but they moved about during a show. Roger and his drums didn’t. He was in his own world and he liked it.

It was nice, actually, focusing on just his beloved drums. Sound checks were so often filled with distractions that he usually got pretty irritated; this time he simply chatted with Alex and Steve while Brian and Freddie fussed about tune volume. John usually went off into his own world unless it had something to do with amps, but now he was coming and sitting protectively beside Roger and the percussion section was really a pleasant area that afternoon. Roger just tapped out some beats and sang when asked to check the volume of his microphones; he trusted that Alex had everything set up right.

They went through a few warmup songs (it was Brian’s turn to pick that time so they did some of his favorites) and Roger felt better when the headphones proved to work great; John’s steady voice calling out cues from Freddie easily. As promised, Freddie wasn’t doing anything wild (for him) and the cues were easy to follow.

It was Roger’s drum solo, moved to early in the show, that had him nervous. He finished a short practice and even with the headphones on he could hear applause from their crew.

“Everyone is grinning ear to ear, mate,” John told him happily through the headphones. “Stand up and wave. Be proud.”

Roger just grinned and waved. It was the first time anyone outside of the band had heard him play, and it was a relief to know he hadn’t totally messed up.

John led him back to what was descried as a “really kind of nice” dressing room. As usual, the band liked to share one big room, choosing to spend that time together before a show. It was even more definite that tonight they would stick together, and Roger doubted that John’s schedule was even really necessary and Roger was surrounded by all three of his band mates at all times.

Brian grumbled again when dinner arrived (“thank God at least round plates,” Roger heard the guitarist mutter) and Roger laughed. He, John, and Brian also had a good chuckle as John dryly described each outfit that Freddie was laying out to wear that night. Usually they had a wardrobe person, but tonight it was just the four of them; Roger was grateful and it felt like old times with the four of them helping each other.

He stayed in a good mood as he was handed some clothing and led to a bathroom so he could change. Freddie ooowwed and awwwed when he emerged, and then Roger was settled in a chair again and had to endure at least another 30 minutes of Freddie fussing with makeup and hair yet again. Roger thought he surely had the patience of a saint as Freddie also tried several necklaces before finally settling on something that made him happy.

“There! You look perfect, darling. Even after these bandages are removed, you really should let me fix you up more, my dear.”

“Right. Sorry Freddie, but…John!” Roger called, snapping his fingers.

“What?” Freddie sounded a tad pissed, and Roger could visualize the singer with his hands on his hips. “Are you playing the John card?”

“Damn right.”

“And good that he is,” John said, the bassist apparently coming over. 

“Roger, darling, after everything, you don’t trust me?” 

“I trust you with my life, yes, but not with you dressing me up,” Roger retorted defensively. 

There was a moment, and Roger could hear John tapping his foot in thought. “Tone down the lipstick,” John declared like a high judge handing down a verdict.

“What?” Freddie and Roger said at the same time. Roger reached out and slapped what he was pretty sure was Freddie’s hand.

“You promised minimum makeup, you twit! Just enough for stage wear!”

“It’s lip gloss,” Freddie argued back.

“Bright red lip gloss,” John informed Roger with a mutter. “May I?” Roger nodded, and felt John dab a tissue at his lips. “Okay, better,” John approved. “And the hair looks good, too.”

“Anything else you care to *ruin*?” Freddie snipped at John.

“Well, we should try with the headphones again,” John mussed.

“Hell, I forgot all about them,” Freddie moaned, and Roger groaned. Sure enough, after the special headphones were put on, Roger had to sit for another 5 minutes while Freddie fussed with his hair again. 

“Cripes, Freddie, what’s the point?” Roger argued when he pulled off the headphones. “They’re going to be off and on all night long.”

“But now I know how to style it every time,” Freddie shot back. “Twenty seconds, max.”

“You are NOT fixing my hair on stage!”

“Back stage, during the breaks,” Freddie argued.

“I swear, when these fucking bandages come off—" Roger’s mood had flipped and he was allowing himself a few minutes of more typical Roger temper. Freddie seemed to have allotted himself a few minutes himself of usual snark.

“Do what, darling? Still refuse to let anyone give you some style?”

“You can style your—“

“I’m leaving you two alone. Try not to kill each other,” John interjected.

“Wait…clothes?” Roger stood up, wanting John to check that as well. The clothes were comfortable and seemed like normal jeans and shirt, but Lord only knew what color combinations Freddie could come up with.

Fortunately, John seemed to find nothing at fault. “You look fine, mate,” he said, his voice sincere. He patted John’s shoulder. “Honestly, nothing I wouldn’t wear.”

“I’m truly hurt you either of you would think—” Freddie began, only for Roger to hear Brian’s voice.

“How’s is going? Oh, hey Roger, yeah, you look fine. Good outfit.”

“You are doing the Brian test as well?” Freddie’s voice was icy. Not quite the argument tone they’d had just a moment before, and not nearly the level of his manager voice, but still, definitely icy.

“Lay off on Roger,” Brian ordered sternly. “Freddie, after John and I saw the look on your face this morning when you got to going on about dress up dolls, me and John made a pact. We trust you, yes. But Roger needs to look like Roger, Freddie, and not like your…um….artistic vision of Roger.”

“Wait?” Roger now turned toward Brian’s voice. “Are you hinting that I don’t *always* look like a vision?” He was grinning, holding his hands out in mock dismay. “Now my feelings are hurt!” he wailed.

Snorts of laughter greeted him, and Freddie was gently shoving him back into the chair with a huffed, “Fine, whatever.” But Roger could hear the smile in his voice.

It was close enough to show time now that Roger was warming up, stretching and jumping up and down, trying to loosen up. It was really muscle memory and the others just made sure furniture was out of the way. They were all warming up now in their individual fashions; Freddie stretching, Brian and John having a knuckle cracking contest (which Roger realized sounded quite disgusting) and all four of them basically just getting ready. Brian and Freddie also had their usual jumping contest as a warm-up and John described it hilariously to Roger, his voice so dry and sounding like a sports announcer. Brian had the advantage of his natural height, but Freddie usually won because he could jump higher due to the strength of his legs.

And then it was time. Roger was at the center of another protective guard and folks were shouting out good luck to him as they went down the hallways and started toward the stage. The plan was that lights and curtains would stay down until Roger was settled.

It was terrifying, but he was surrounded by three familiar, comfortable figures. Roger, John and Freddie usually made their entrances from different directions, but tonight they were around him. They weren’t going to start this without him. They were going to focus on Roger and he really was the front man this time.

Freddie had his hands on his shoulders. Grounding him. Secure. Safe. Confident. John and Brian also squeezed his shoulders in reassurance. They were surrounding him, keeping him safe.

“Let’s do this,” Freddie said confidentially, waiting for Roger to give the signal to start.

Roger spun his drumsticks.

“Ready, Freddie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like one more chapter, and then an epilogue. Thank you again for all the kudos!


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello :-) This is the final chapter, but there is an epilogue that will be posted in a few minutes. Thank you to everyone for the kind comments and kudos!

The performance wasn’t perfect, not by Roger’s standards. But back at the hotel, surrounded by his brothers, Brian truly could not have given a damn.

Freddie and John (of all people) were jumping up and down on the bed, screaming out loud the enthusiastic early reviews of the show. Queen was fantastic. Queen had given an amazing performance. Queen fans were awestruck. And oh, yeah, their drummer, who was temporarily blinded? Fucking awesome.

Brian was the one who tried to reign in it a bit, hollering at Freddie and John to stop jumping on the bed as it could possibly jostle Roger, but the drummer was having none of it.  
“Whatever, Brian!” he yelled. He jumped up, made grabby hands, and was promptly enfolded in hugs from all three of his bandmates, helping him to jump up and down as well.

“We seriously are the champions!” Freddie crowed, and Roger could find no fault with that statement. 

In interviews later, Roger would claim that he “really didn’t remember very well” that night; that he had been “just plain terrified”. But in truth he remembered a lot of things; they were just too personal.

He remembered John’s steady and constant voice in his ear, not just counting in and out of songs, but also keeping him grounded and focused and always aware (“Ok, Freddie is coming up on the drum stand, just keep playing.” “Break time; turn around, Steve is waiting for you.” “Freddie is signaling, get ready, and….cut!) Roger knew he couldn’t have made it through the night without that perfectly calm voice keeping him steady.

Brian coming over every couple of songs, and Roger could feel the sleeve of his shirt gently brushing his arms, or a pat on his shoulder, making sure that Roger knew he was there, watching him. There were some extra-long guitar solos so Roger could catch his breath. 

Freddie, interacting even more than usual with the crowd, making sure that Roger had breaks to catch his breath and re-orientate himself. Screaming out support for the drummer, but not making a big deal of it. “We’re Queen…did you seriously expect anything less than perfection?” he yelled. “Honestly, did anyone think that Roger couldn’t play?” The roar of the crowd was clear even through the special headphones.

Alex did take over for a few extra songs, and Roger was proud of his tech. Steve was never more than a meter away, crouching the entre time behind the drum sets, ready to help him as needed, bottles of water offered, checking on him during the breaks.

Roger knew that some of his timing was a bit shaky, especially for the first song, but somehow things miraculously clicked again and for a time, he was in control of everything, just focusing on the music. With Alex as steady backup, and John keeping count, they got through everything.

At the end of the show, Brian and John had their arms slung around his shoulders to guide him through the cables and assorted crap so he could go to the front of the stage to accept the screams from the audience. It was all wild and disorientated, but still Roger was grinning madly, caught up in the relief and excitement. He yelled heartfelt “thank you’s” to the crowd, waving and obligingly tossing some drum sticks in the direction of the noise. He yelled for Alex to come join them, and held their clasped hands high.

“Roger Taylor, best damn drummer ever, and his protégé Alex, without whom we could have never gotten Roger back behind the drums!” Freddie hollered, and the crowd went wild.

Roger was pretty sure everyone could see he was blushing. Especially how after Freddie gave him a peck on the cheek in front of thousands of people and cameras. Ah, Hell, it wasn’t the first time. Judging by the additional screams, it sounded like Freddie was bestowing many kisses that night. 

“Freddie just kissed Brian *and* the Red Special,” John reported drily when some screams reached a fever pitch. “I---Oh Hell---” the auditorium sounded liked it was about to explode and Roger suspected from the slight jostling that Freddie had just kissed John on the cheek.

Before too long, though, Roger was being helped off stage, John and Brian sensing that he was exhausted. Everything was just a blur, but it was now a happy blur, and Roger knew he could trust his band mates. He happily let himself be led down the corridors, yelling more thanks you’s to the crew and assorted backstage support. He moved with confidence, head high, just riding the excitement of a good show and something more….settled in himself.

Damn, this crazy plan had worked after all.

Things all merged together for a time, Roger just rolling along with it. Quick showers in the dressing room area, Steve having to change his bandages because they got wet, but the med student was laughing and upbeat like everyone else. Yeah, Steve was definitely going to be the band medic for the rest of his life; he just didn’t know it yet, Roger decided. Brian and John bitching about how long Freddie was taking in the shower and John being fussy about how the amps were packed; just like usual.

There were no parties, instead by an unspoken agreement they were soon back in the hotel suite, just the four of them again, reading early reviews and having their own private party. They needed to be together, to bask in the knowledge that with help, they really had done this.

After the bed jumping, a fairly typical rock and roll tour dinner was served around midnight, and Roger and John giggled while Brian and Freddie bitched about the oblong plates.

“Oh yeah, if you think it will work, you try it!” Brian challenged Freddie.

“Brian is daring Freddie to eat off an oblong plate,” John provided commentary in a side-whisper. He and Roger were comfortably situated back in the middle of the Roger’s large main bed, snacking off of bed trays, while the other two band mates were – according to John – having some face-off in the living room of the suite.

“I say go for it, Freddie!” Roger helpfully yelled. He made grabby hands, and all three of his band mates were instantly at his beck and call, just as he had conditioned them properly over the past week (God, he loved his biology background).

“What do you need, Rog?” Brian asked immediately. He was usually the first to respond….Brian was a smart, smart, man.

“I need a tie!” Roger announced. “One of Freddie’s ties.” He snapped his fingers and yep, he could hear running feet.

Damn, he had them well trained. For sure, he was going to use this power as long as possible. 

A few minutes later, Freddie was obligingly blindfolded and claiming he could find the food perfectly fine, thank you very much, from an oblong plate. Since Roger was fully bandaged, and Brian was obviously biased, it was John who had to serve as judge. When John ruled that Freddie was doing fine, Brain stopped off to sulk, muttering about damn artists and depth perception, and John handed Roger over to Freddie for main duty while their bassist went to apologize to their guitarist; an apology that soon turned into an argument. Roger could them snarking at each other in what he assumed was the main living area of the suite. 

Freddie sighed, took off the blindfold, and made himself comfortable on the bed, throwing an arm around Roger and guided him to sit back against the headboard of the bed. The high of the performance had eased down and Roger was happy to relax against the singer and a pile of pillows. 

‘It’s made us closer,” Freddie suddenly said.

“Um?” Roger had been focusing on the voices of Brian and John, now ranting about spheres and radius. “I’m sorry, Fred. Was sort of tuning into those two nerds out there.”

Freddie chuckled. “No apologies necessary. I mean…” Freddie paused, thinking. “I wouldn’t wish the past week on anyone, my dear, especially you. But if it had to happen, something good has come of it, has it has made us closer.” Freddie paused again. “A family.”

Roger smiled. “We are, aren’t we?”

There was a kiss on his forehead. “Have been since we got together. Just need a reminder once in a while.” Roger smiled at the words, and made grabby hands.

“Beer?” he asked in his most pathetic tone, like Oliver Twist asking for more gruel. He knew his medication regime, and one more beer was not going to hurt him. A bottle was quickly put in his hand (good operant conditioning, he congratulated himself yet again) and he settled back against Freddie. “Okay, running commentary,” he demanded. Freddie chuckled and launched into a detailed analysis of the argument taking place in the living area.

“Brian is holding up an oblong and a round plate…something about radius. And John is now holding up wires…oh dear…his extra bass strings. Something about curvature.” He raised his voice slightly as the men in the outer room turned on the graphic designer. ”No, darlings, artists use the same standards of measurement as anyone else. Keep me out of this now. I proved it could be done, you two figure it out.” He settled back against Roger and continued the commentary. “Alright, now Brian is on the phone….yes, calling room service for a….tape measure. Seriously? Yes, a tape measure. Now John has the phone….asking for a…protractor? Honestly? Good Lord, the rumors that room service can now spread…”

Roger chuckled. “Science and Rock and Roll,” he mused happily. About 10 minutes later, room service somehow did produce a tape measure and protractor and Freddie kept dutifully kept up the commentary until Roger dozed off, perfectly content.

*****

The company had arranged for a press conference the following day back at the venue before their next performance, with the understanding that Roger might or might not appear. “What do you think, love?” Freddie asked as he finished fussing with Roger’s hair in the dressing room.

Roger sighed; press had never been one of his very favorite things, but he had always understood the need. There had been thousands of requests for him to appear officially and with the first performance success still in his veins, he felt it was now or never.

“Let me pass the John and Brian check first,” he teased Freddie.

“Good grief,” Freddie muttered, but dutifully summoned the other two members of the band. After getting an all clear, Roger nodded.

“Ok, let’s do it,” he decided. “But not too many people, right?” Press conferences could be wild and chaotic, and he wouldn’t have the orientation of his drum kit to tell which direction a question had come from. He didn’t want to be photographed talking to a blank wall.

“A couple dozen, no more. And we’ll be at a table,” John said. He didn’t love the press either, so if the bassist thought it would work out, Roger could go for it.

“I had an idea,” Brian said. “You sit between John and I. If he taps your knee, turn in that general direction. If I tap your knee, face toward me a bit. We’ll be in the center, and if you don’t get a tap, then just face forward.”

Roger signed in relief. “Yeah, that sounds like a plan.”

“And we’ll keep it short,” John promised.

“Okay.”

In what had become standard procedure, Brian and John were on either side of Roger as Freddie led the way to the small side room. “Smile….all three of you,” the singer commanded. Roger and John shared a giggle as they entered.

It was harder to face just a few dozen reporters than a huge arena crowd, but Roger kept focused, just hoping that he didn’t look like a fool. Freddie started talking the minute they entered, so he took off some of the pressure until Roger was settled in a chair. As near as Roger could tell, they were lined up Freddie, John, himself, and Brian. Okay, time to get serious.

“Mr. Taylor! Mr. Taylor! How are you doing?” It seemed that every reporter was asking that, so Roger settled for smiling and facing straight.

“I’m good, thanks. Um, first off, I would like to thank everyone for all the cards, letters and well-wishes. It really does mean a lot, and I can’t thank everyone enough. The support has just been tremendous; really overwhelming.”

“Mr. Taylor! Did you think right away that you could continue playing?” John tapped his knee, so he faced more toward his right.

“Ah, no, not at all, honestly. I suggested that my tech, Alex Winter, finish the tour for me. He’s amazing….as you may have heard last night. But, well, these three fools beside me insisted that we try.”

“We knew he could do it,” John said firmly.

“Mr. Taylor! How long will the bandages remain on?” A tap from Brian.

“Depends on what the doctors say, but at least a few more weeks. Oh, and if you need a recommendation for a good ophthalmologist, I really suggest Dr. Lewis; she amazing. She actually made Freddie shut up.” There were chuckles around the room.

“Is the plan for Roger to finish the tour playing drums?” This was tossed out to the group, and Brian took it.

“Yes, so long as he remains cleared by the doctor to perform.”

“We at least want him singing,” Freddie said firmly.

“You’re just jealous that you can’t hit all the high notes and low notes at the same time,” Roger replied, and it was back to being a comfortable and laid-back conference, full of the band joking and teasing one another, just like usual.

As promised, the conference was short and Roger received a lot of applause and shouts of well wishes as they left. Warm up went as usual, and then he was led out to the drum kit, Freddie, Brian and John taking their places beside him. Nerves hit, of course, wondering if last night had been some lucky fluke, but he knew there was really nothing to worry about.

Not with friends like he had.

*****  
The next two weeks were busy, but happy. They had the five scheduled performances but also added an extra one when begged by the company. “Who knew hurt Roger could sell so many tickets?” Freddie mussed one afternoon. Judging by the sounds, both Brian and John smacked the singer, and Roger smiled. He made grabby hands, and was quickly given a fresh drink. 

He got a bit more confident each show, although none were perfect to his mind. But he had his three brothers and what was by now a regular army supporting them, and he knew he wasn’t in this alone.

He nagged the others to go out after shows, but the other three had apparently formed some pact, and every night now it was the four of them together back the various hotels on the tour, staying together at each new place. Lots of new songs were discussed, some trashed and some partially written. 

Deaky’s Roger schedule continued, and quite honestly Roger started to like all the opportunities he had. Brian, Freddie and John were quite well trained now, thank you very much, and Roger basked in the power of grabby hands and snapping his fingers. Yeah, this was definitely going to tested after the bandages came off.

*****

Three weeks after the accident, Roger sat nervously in a small dark exam room, peering through a machine as the ophthalmologist checked his vision. It seemed to take forever, all the checks and scans, but Roger was relieved that he could just see. It was pretty damn amazing, for sure. He wished the lights were brighter, but the doctor had been very firm about needing extremely dim light for the exam. 

Dr. Reed had also apparently talked to Dr. Lewis and been forewarned, because Freddie, Brian, and John were banned from the actual exam room, and under strict orders to not open the door, but were occasionally yelling things through the door.

“Roger, how are you, dear?” Freddie called.

“Still here, Freddie,” Roger yelled back.

“Of course you are, just checking.”

“What’s the visual acuity measurement?” Brian called.

Because of the darkness and Roger’s position of staring through the device, he couldn’t see the doctor’s expression, but heard amusement in his voice. “That’s obviously the one who studied science, right?” Dr. Reed asked.

“Yeah. He studied dust between asteroids...by choice, so, yeah…sorry.”

“Good Lord, no apologies necessary.” He raised his voice slightly. “We’ll know soon,” he called to the men outside.

“Thank you.” Brian was so polite.

“But you can see, right?” Freddie was very excited.

“Yes, Freddie.”

“Come on Freddie, we knew that he could see,” John argued. “It’s just a question of how well.”

“Right, so that’s why we need the visual acuity measurement.” Brian sounded just a bit *too* eager to get a number.

There were the sounds of a slight scuffle and a bang against the exam room door. “”Hey,” John objected. “I’m in charge of the bag. Hands off.” John had somehow obtained an assortment of prescription sunglasses in anticipation of Roger’s bandages being removed. They had been forewarned that he would need to wear sunglasses for some time as his eyes readjusted to light.

“I’m just checking for style, dear.”

“It’s everything they had available. Now back off.”

“We should really sort them by prescription strength, that way when we get a number—“

“Why are they all the same frame color? That is so boring.”

“I said, hands off the bag! Now you got them dirty with fingerprints.”

Dr. Reed raised the light level slightly in the room, and Roger could now see a broad smile on the man’s dark face. “*They* have been taking care of you? And you survived?” he asked drily, gesturing toward the door.

Roger nodded. “I was lucky,” he said solemnly. 

“I would say rather a miracle.”

“Very possibly.”

Dr. Reed chucked. “Well, I must say, Dr. Lewis was not exaggerating one bit.” He raised his voice a bit. “Excuse me, gentlemen?”

There was a pause. Then a timid “Yes, sir?” from Brian.

“We’ll get this done a lot faster if you stop interrupting. Just saying.”

“Yes, sir,” John and Freddie said in unison.

The dark-skinned man chucked and turned to Roger. “Still want me to give you the results with your friends present?”

“Yes, please. And they’ll just pester you with questions anyway, so you might as well tell us all at the same time.” Roger paused, considering for a moment. “They have a list of questions, actually. Written down. They thought I was asleep when they started making the list last night.”

“Good Lord,” Dr. Reed sighed. He turned up the light a little more, and Roger grinned, delighted to see colors again. 

“Before I let them in, put on these glasses.” The doctor rummaged in a drawer for a moment and pulled out a pair of sunglasses. “These are close enough for a prescription until you get back to England. Put them on now; when I open the door, there may be a lot of light coming from the hallway.” He paused, considering. “Or maybe not, with those three blocking the doorway.”

Roger laughed and put on the glasses. “I’m going to raise the light level very slowly,” the doctor said. “Just let me know if it gets uncomfortable at any point.”

“Okay.” 

There was a knock on the door. “Roger, darling?”

“I’m still here, Freddie,” Roger yelled.

A few minutes later, Roger was easily looking around the room, comfortable even when a flashlight was shined in his eyes. He was practically bouncing in his seat with excitement and relief.

“Alright, ready?” Dr. Reed was clearly amused.

Before Roger could answer, Brian’s voice came through the door. “Pardon me, but um……is there a…..number yet? I convinced John to sort the glasses by prescription strength, so---”

“But we must get different styles and colors!” Freddie interrupted. 

“Seriously, *that* is what you’re worried about right now?” John snapped. There were sounds of more scuffling.

“Lord have mercy, idiot white boy rock and roll,” Dr. Reed muttered. Roger grinned. 

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he apologized.

The doctor patted his shoulder. “It’s alright, son. If you survived three weeks with those three taking care of you, then I’m here to tell you that I’m impressed.” He cleared his throat. “Excuse me!” he said loudly.

The scuffling ceased immediately. “Yes, sir?” It was Brian again.

“You may come in—“ the door was open before he could even finish the sentence.

Freddie, Brian and John all somehow got through the doorway at the same time, bouncing with excitement. Roger had tried to think of something witty to say at this moment, but the second he saw them, he was just up and involved in a group hug.

God, it was good to see them again.

“Roger, dear,” Freddie was practically bouncing up and down and Roger grabbed his shoulders in return. Brian and John squeezed in and there was just utter talking over one another.

“How are you, dear?”

“What’s the number? John, where the Hell are the glasses?”

“You got them out of order, moron, give me a second.”

“He already has on glasses, and I must say, they look perfectly fine.”

“Ah, screw the bag,” John said, clearly giving up.

“God, you look good.”

“How do you feel?”

“Darling, shouldn’t you sit back down?”

“Chair is at 2:00…ah, yeah, you can see!”

“Damn right I can!”

“But I still get to pick your clothes.”

“Like Hell, you do!”

“Excuse me!” The four members of Queen all shut up at the doctor’s firm voice and turned to him meekly. The African-American doctors face was stern, but even Roger could see that his lips were firmly trying pressed together, trying to not laugh. “If you gentlemen would all pay attention for a moment, please.”

“Yes, sir.” They all said in perfect unison, looking completely contrite. 

Dr. Reed’s face split into a broad smile and he chuckled. “Mr. Taylor, please have a seat. The rest of your gentlemen just pay attention now, you understand?” There were nods all around the room. The doctor pulled up some x-rays and pointed at a chart on the wall.

“Well first, the surgery was a complete success, and there appears to be no permanent injury to the optic nerve.” Everyone sighed in relief. “Mr. Taylor, your vision is not perfect, but it is pretty damn close. Which one of you is Mr. May?” Brian raised his hand. “I’m not sure if doctors in the U.K. use the Snellen Eye chart or not, but with 20/20 being perfect, Mr. Taylor is correctable to 20/25 wearing mild corrective lenses, which is excellent. Another week or two to allow the last of the swelling to go away, and he could easily be at 20/20 with or without glasses or contacts. Of course, it depends on what his vision was before the accident.”

“He may need to wear glasses or contacts; we shall just have to wait. I have all the fine print in his records and obviously he will need to see a colleague once you get back to the U.K. He will need to wear prescription sunglasses at all times for at least a few weeks. He will be very sensitive to light.” He handed the prescription to Brian, who looked rather smug as he studied the numbers, and everyone nodded. Dr. Reed glanced at Roger, and the drummer shrugged his shoulders. “Now, are there any questions?”

John pulled out a notebook and began rattling off from the list.

Nearly 20 minutes later, they had reached the end of the list and Dr. Reed looked exhausted. “”I assume one of you is in charge of paperwork?” he asked. John raised his hand. “Of course you are. Give me a few minutes to get it all gathered, and my nurse will sign it out to you. Provided, however, that you all sign some autographs for me.” He smiled. “My nieces would kill me if I don’t get autographs and pictures. Come to think of it, so would my wife.”

They all laughed, and for a while it was a fun time of poses for pictures with all the staff and signing lots of silly things. One of the nurses had found a permanent marker, and the whole band wrote messages of thanks on whatever they were handed. Cameras were also produced and lots of goofy pictures followed, the normally stern and imposing doctor doing his best air guitar Jimi Hendrix’s impersonation with Queen as backup. 

Finally, a tour manager got them rounded up, saying a car was ready out back, and Roger was automatically put between Brian and John, each taking one of his arms. When they started to walk, Roger dug in his heels and they turned to him in surprise.

“Everything okay, mate?” Brian asked worriedly. Roger grinned, looking the tall man right in the eye.

“I think I can get by on my own, now,” he said drily. 

There was lots more laughter, but Roger still ended up in the middle between Brian and John and they refused to let go of him.

Roger mouthed “help me” to Dr. Reed, and the good doctor just threw up his hands.

“You were lucky before, son. I’ll pray for you that it holds.”

*****

A quick impromptu press conference broke out at the small airport before they boarded the private jet for the trip home. As they walked from the limo to the plane, Roger spouted a line of reporters and decided it was as good a time as any. “Hey, let me go talk to them, okay?”

Brian and John, still in the firm habit of keeping their drummer safe, flanked him as Freddie led the way over. Roger just shook his head and reflected that there might be some slight downsides to the waiting on hand and foot service.

“Mr. Taylor! Can you see?”

“Mr. Taylor! What are the sunglasses for?”

Roger cleared his throat and smiled. “First, yes, I can see. Pretty well, actually. I can see, um, for example that you my dear have on a lovely white jumper,” he smiled at a lady reporter. “And that you, sir, have on a red shirt with yellow stripes,” he said to a photographer. “Ah, my vision isn’t perfect, but it seems that I will just need glasses or contacts and that certainty isn’t a big deal. I will be sporting prescription sunglasses for a time because my eyes are very sensitive to light.”

“Mr. Taylor! Did you really think you could finish the tour?” Oh, that question was always going to be asked, and Roger just smiled.

“I had lots of doubts. And I needed help from a lot of people, including these fools here, but together, they um, got me through it all. But I couldn’t have done it without so much help from my band mates and our crew.”

There were a few more assorted questions, and then a handler told them it was firmly time to board. Brian and John were still stuck to Roger’s sides, and he shook his head as they walked toward the stairs. “You know, guys, it may help if you move more than an inch away from me and let them see that I can..uh…see.”

“Sorry,” Brian said, and both he and John stepped away. Reporters got some very good pictures of Roger walking by himself, chatting with the crew, and then turning and waving before running up the stairs.

They settled quickly into the small but very nice private lounge on the plane and Roger was touched at how Freddie kept calling out obstacles (“Curtain!”) and how Brian and John hovered until Roger was in his seat with the seat belt firmly fastened. 

The plane took off, and as soon as the fasten seat belt sign was off, John pulled out something from a cabinet and excited handed it to Roger.

“What’s this?”

“Your present from Dr. Lewis!” Brian explained. “Come on, what is it?”

“You seriously kept you promise to not open it?” Roger tore at the elaborate wrapping paper eagerly.

“She would have killed us, love, believe me.” Freddie drawled.

Roger tossed the final layer of paper aside, not missing the moment to muse on the metaphor of his bandages being removed, and found a photo album in a box.

For the next hour, the four members of Queen ooohed and awed at the pictures that Dr. Lewis had copied from her day at Woodstock….seriously, Jimi Hendrixs backstage? Roger was in awe of one totally gorgeous lady in almost every Jimi Hendrixs photo and it just increased when Freddie gleefully confirmed that it was a young Dr. Lewis. Roger was especially touched that she had included a few recent pictures of herself with the other three members of Queen, proving, as she wrote in the margins, that “ladies get better with age!!” The glasses just made her look even hotter, he decided.

Yeah, he was a bit in love with her. And the rest of the band was in total agreement.

A few hours into the flight Roger looked up very carefully, making sure his band mates were still nearby, then cleared his throat and made a grabby hand.

“Yes?” Brian said quickly.

“What do you need?” John followed up

“Darling? What can we get you?”

“Beer?” Roger asked sweetly. He had to keep his head down and was biting his lip to keep from laughing. Testing science had never been so much fun.

“Sure, just one second.” Roger sneaked a peek through his lashes and saw Brian quickly pouring a glass from the built-in mini bar. It was placed in his hands within moments.

“Table is just to your left, here,” Brian guided Roger’s hand gently down.

“Here’s a napkin, 12:00,” John said.

“How about a snack?” Freddie suggested.

Roger couldn’t hold back the laughter anymore, and looked up at all three of his hovering brothers, whipping off the sunglasses for a moment and batting his big blue eyes. It was John who put the pieces together. “Hey, you can see now, you little---"

“Bastard!” Freddie finished.

“The Hell?” Brian fumed, knowing he had been gotten good.

“You little shit,” Freddie muttered, and then he burst out laughing, nearly doubling over. When he straightened up, he made grabby hands, and Roger happily jumped up from his seat and started another massive group hug.

They could do anything together.


	10. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Excerpts from Deaky’s master schedule, with scribbled notes in margins.

Excerpts from Deaky’s master schedule, with scribbled notes in margins.

***

**Roger Duty:**

 

 **Saturday the 12th:** Everyone _(Freddie – “As if anything else!”)_

 

***

**Sunday the 13th**

12 midnight to 2:00pm: Everyone.

2:00 – 6:00: ~~Brian~~ Poodle

6:00 – bedtime: ~~Deaky~~ Shepherd _(Freddie – “You mean Sheepy, darling.” Shepherd – “Shut up, Freddie.”)_

Night shift: Freddie

 

***

**Monday the 14th**

8:00am – 1:00pm: Shepherd

1:00pm – 6:00pm: Poodle. Go to piano on ground floor.

6:00 – bedtime: Everyone

Nightshift: ~~Freddie~~ Everyone!

 

***

**Tuesday the 15th**

8:00am – 1:00: Poodle and/or Shepherd.

2:00 appt with Dr Lewis. Everyone. _(Freddie – “I think Rog has a crush on her.” Poodle – “She was at Woodstock and is a doctor; who wouldn’t love her?” Shepherd – “Duh, you two”)._

??- ??: Everyone. REHEARSE?? _(Freddie – “No question marks, darling; it will happen”)._

?? – bedtime: Shepherd

Nightshift: – ~~Freddie~~ Dandie Dinmont Terrier

 

***

**Wednesday the 16th**

8:00am – 12:00 noon: Poodle

12:00 – 3:00: Shepherd

?? Rehearse.

3:00pm – bedtime: Everyone.

Nightshift: ~~Dandie Dinmont Terrier~~ TERROR _(Dandie Dinmont Terrier - “What did I do to you?” Poodle – “Trust me, you were a *Terror* waking up this morning. Roger specifically asked me to write in TERROR for tomorrow as well. I’m just doing what Roger wants. Deal with it.”)_

 

***

**Thursday the 17th**

8:00am – 1:00pm: ~~Poodle~~ Shepherd _(Poodle – “Sorry Shepherd, but it’s your turn to wake up Terror.” Shepherd – “Chicken.”)_

??? Everyone: Rehearse.

Nightshift: Terror

 

***

**Friday the 18th**

8:00am – 1:00pm: Poodle

??? Everyone: Rehearse. Go to airport.

Nightshift: Dandie Dinmont Terrier _(Dandie Dinmont Terrier - “Oh, so ever glad to be back in your good graces, darlings.”)_

 

***

 **Saturday the 19th** (First performance):

??? – 8:00pm: Everyone.

8:00pm: Performance. Sit on chair, look hot, and play tambourine. _(Poodle – “What?” Shepherd – “I promised I would write that in.” Dandie Dinmont Terrier – “Sweet, but unnecessary.”)_

Nightshift: ~~Everyone~~ THE CHAMPIONS

 

***

 **Tuesday the 2nd**  (last day!):

11:00am: Appointment with Dr. Reed

12:00: Whippet is off the collar. Unleash the Whippet. _(Shepherd – “Yeah!”. Poodle – “Hallelujah!” Dandie Dinmont Terrier – “Whooooooo!” Whippet – “I can SEE now guys….who the hell nicknamed me *whippet*???)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for reading and leaving kudos and such kind comments. I hope you smiled a little :-)


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